


Deal

by Code16



Series: Have To Offer [1]
Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: AU--with powers, Affably Evil, Alternate Universe - Powers, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Brief Foot!Kink, Compulsion, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, F/M, M/M, Multi, Mundane Fantastic, Object Penetration, Self-Sacrifice, Spanking, Wbb - Freeform, dubcon, group rape, mild gunkink, some wall sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-09 17:16:14
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5548751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Code16/pseuds/Code16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"He doesn’t worry if the man knows English. Doesn’t wonder why an enemy would do as he asks. When the man beckons him forward, shoves him to his knees in the dirt, it feels as only to be expected as hitting the ground again after a jump."</p><p>or, John has a somewhat unusual power.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Knowing

**Author's Note:**

> See endnotes for elaboration on the noncon/dubcon warning.
> 
> (Unrated because I don't feel like I have a good understanding of how ratings map to content. If anyone could offer me any advice on this, that would be really appreciated/helpful.)
> 
> ETA - Note, chapters I add may be out of order, and will be rearranged as needed. I think/hope the chapter descriptions should be descriptive enough to alleviate resulting difficulties with navigation.
> 
> See endnotes for works inspired by this one.

He doesn’t know where it came from, why he can do this.

He’s a man of many skills, and he can _account_ for them - every shot that hits dead center is hours at the range and then off it, every job his muscles, mind perform can unfurl memories behind it. A bullet that knocks a target back, a would-be assassin who won’t get up again - if a sequence of events changes because of him, if it feels almost as natural as breathing - he _knows_ why. 

Except for.

It’s night, patrol, and he’s alone in the woods, too far. He hears it first, follows the sound to see them - the man, the gun. Too far to cross the distance, too close to run and hope for poor aim. He might have tried it anyway, one or the other, but -

“Don’t shoot.” The words come out, almost of their own volition. Come, and they’re not just words, he can feel it. _Something_ is carried in them. The man seems to pause for a moment. Then he smiles and lowers the gun.

Wherever it comes from, it feels like it must be a part of him, because it never surprises him, anymore than he’d be surprised that his eyes open when he wants them to, or that words people say map to meanings in his head.

He doesn’t worry if the man knows English. Doesn’t wonder why an enemy would do as he asks. When the man beckons him forward, shoves him to his knees in the dirt, it feels as only to be expected as hitting the ground again after a jump.

He chokes on the cock, in his mouth, down his throat, the man’s hands fisted in his hair, forcing him closer as he struggles to breathe. He thinks he might vomit, and knows he won’t. His body will cooperate. His body will do what is needed. Blackness dances in front of his eyes, his own hands open and close somewhere. His body will do what is needed, as long as needed. The man finishes, thrusting a last time, pulling John against him, rough fabric and overheated skin. The man shoves him back, and he goes sprawling in the dirt, knowing not to catch himself as clearly and absolutely as he knew to swallow, as he knows that striking _now_ isn’t an option. This isn’t a distraction he can use to break the man’s neck or go for the knife in his boot. The man didn’t shoot him. That’s what he gets out of this.

The man leaves him there and it’s done, _something_ that had seemed to hang in the air, just under the surface, closing like a completed circle and gone. Finished. Sealed.

He stands, cleans himself up enough not to be obtrusive. (It wouldn’t have mattered). Takes care of the need that had brought him out in the first place. He isn’t hard, wasn’t, even slightly. He hadn’t needed to be. _This time, this one_ , whatever this is tells him. He notices when his breathing turns erratic, corrects it. He turns back the way he’d come.

The others, when he returns, say nothing, wonder nothing. If he’d chanced on a soldier with different desires, he could have come back with the evidence of what he’d done on his face, could have come back bleeding, and they would have wondered nothing. 

He doesn’t know where it came from, doesn’t have the slightest idea, but it’s _there,_ like his name, like the fact that he’s never heard of anything like this in his life. He knows he could have asked this man not to shoot, but not to die or to surrender or to show him his base on a map. Knows that there are people he couldn’t have asked it of. Knows that the man will and will have wondered nothing either, that it would have felt to him just as obvious, just as unstrange. Knows that there’s no need for him to go in for a medical test, that if he bleeds he’ll never need a doctor and never fear lasting damage. Knows that and more - the rules are there, dormant until he needs them, natural as breathing air, incontrovertible as suffocating without it.

He’s read stories in his life, of course. Genies. Incubi. Even if they were real and not stories, they’re - not this.

“God, you’re tense today,” Paul, from Columbia, tells him. “And quiet. Did you meet a demon in the woods, or something?” And he thinks, it isn’t who I met.


	2. Mark, or, Unsuccess

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex/noncon in this one.

Whatever he asks of people, they must be willing to give it. Flexible, on some level.

“Find someone else,” he says to Mark, and he should have known something was wrong when it doesn’t work, because there’s no reason for Mark to want him specifically on this mission so much. But he doesn’t, and then he’s in Ordos and a plane is approaching and it’s too late.


	3. Elias, or Perception

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag to 1.07.

No one ever found it strange, or noticeable, but some people seemed more perceptive about what it meant than others. He almost invariably wants to never meet them again, and he doesn’t get what he wants, often.

“Elias, you don’t need to kill him-“ The gun stills in the air.

“If you say so, John.” It shifts, fires, down - Lazlo screams and collapses. “There’s more than one way to send a message.” 

“You tell your papa, Laszlo, if he gets out of town tonight, I'll let him live. Brighton beach belongs to me now.”

Elias walks back over to him, still holding the gun, and John braces, waiting. Elias seems the type to want it elaborate. The railing isn’t a bad height, to be bent over. The rope is too thin for good restraints, but it could be worse, Lazlo is bearing his weight against nearly-wire behind him, and John at least has no need to worry for his own wrists.

“You can stay where you are, John. You won’t need your hands. This way, just a little.” 

_You know, sometimes you have to do things you don't like._

Elias is gentle, slow, runs his fingers through John’s hair, caressing. Brushes his thumb against John’s lips before guiding him forward. He wants the same in return, John’s mouth closing softly around him, John’s tongue stroking him, relaxed, liesurely. John would rather be forced down and choked on it, and not only because it might be over faster, but he doesn’t get to choose that, either. He tries to ignore Lazlo, still groaning a few feet away. It doesn’t and so shouldn’t matter, but he can never get used to, or not hate, being watched.

“That’s good, that’s very good, John,” Elias says, and John flinches, conceals it behind briefly closed eyes he wishes he could keep that way. 

“Some things in life should be savored, John,” Elias says as he swallows around him. “No, no, not just yet. I do enjoy this part.” The softening cock is warm in his mouth, and he can hardly believe that this is all Elias wants, now.

“It’s hardly appropriate to indulge an entire feast at once. Some courses are best with anticipation.” And John swallows again, because of course the man who isn’t Charlie Burton would have - perception. It is as cogent as it is horrible.

Elias pulls out, tucks himself back into his clothes. “Of course, some dishes cannot be left on the table.” John doesn’t close his eyes, this time. What he can do has been done, both sides. Free action, end state as the start state, or closest to it. He started this on his knees under a gun, and Elias is as free to put a bullet in his head as he had been, and he knows there’ll be no flexibility in it. At least his perception won’t matter, then.

Elias bends down to him.

“I thought about killing you, John. But I realize that that would seem ungrateful. Besides, how do you take the life of someone so talented? I could really use a guy like you in my organization. I wish you luck, John. If you stay out of my way, I'll stay out of yours.” He can’t quite tell if ‘talented’ is carrying something extra.

“What if I don’t?” 

“Then we'll meet again under less pleasant circumstances.” Elias makes what looks like a bow, starts to walk away. Halts for a moment, turns back.

“Or not less pleasant, who can say.”

_We have more people to help, more numbers_

_Veni, vidi, vici._

He wonders what the Latin is for ‘break even’. If ‘try until he met a gun that wouldn’t move for him’ had a better future tense.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewatched the scene in question before writing this, and the dialogue was so perfect it was almost incredible. I decided to put in all the lines I was seeing as remaining, rather than just a few as anchors, so that no one would have to do the work of going to look for them. The transcript I used as reference is [here](http://www.springfieldspringfield.co.uk/view_episode_scripts.php?tv-show=person-of-interest&episode=s01e07). The additions, of course, are my own.


	4. Elias (2), or, Delegation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set between 1.17 and 1.19
> 
> See endnotes for elaboration on the relationships tags.

“Mr. Reese, may I remind you what happened last time we attempted to deal with Elias?”

John doesn’t pause. Being locked in a refrigerated truck notwithstanding, if it hadn’t been for Elias they would never have found Leila to begin with, and they both know it.

“I’ll be more careful this time,” he says, reaching for his earpiece. “I have a plan.” And he turns it off.

Last time, he’d gone in fully expecting to need to… ask it, of Elias. When Elias had agreed before they got to that point, it felt like sitting down at a card table as a distraction and then accidentally winning. He should never had trusted it. This was his to do, and he had no right to be feeling reluctance, let alone putting it before their work. He wouldn’t make the same mistake this time.

“Elias,” he says. “I have a proposition for you.”

It seems his corrected approach is successful, because the number is returned to his family, and John isn’t held at gunpoint, after. Just told to wait in an alley until Elias’s men show up and shove a bag over his head. 

Normally he’d try to gather what he could of the route from other senses, but that wouldn’t work here, so he doesn’t try. Just waits. Out of the car he’s taken inside a building, down a flight of stairs, and through a doorway. The hood is yanked off and the door closes behind him.

John blinks his eyes to find - not Elias. Marconi, he remembers his name is, standing in front of him in full NYPD disguise. A glance around the room reveals Elias next to a set of drawers, looking at the two of them. …did Elias think he needed a bodyguard? That was ludicrous. No one ever misconceived themselves in danger from him when he did this - not when he wanted them dead and they knew it and their desire was to be overpowered, or bound, or taken. Certainly not Elias. Marconi takes a step forward, shoves him back into the wall, and starts shoving off his jacket. 

John looks at Elias again. He’s… entertained multiple partners before, but that was generally when he’d made his offer to all of them. He tries to pull away from Marconi’s hands and can’t. Elias is sitting down on a chair in the corner.

“Don’t want me yourself, Elias?” He’s surprised when the words actually come out of his mouth.

“All in good time, John."

He gets to keep his shirt, apparently, though mostly unbuttoned, and Marconi has him roll up his sleeves before pulling rope out of some pocket and tying his wrists together. Splinters dig into his skin. From the outfit, John might have expected handcuffs. Marconi shoves him forward again, and John hadn’t failed to notice the table in room, obviously. He leans down on elbows and forearms as Marconi reaches for his belt.

If he turns his head he can see Elias, in the chair, legs spread, but apparently only watching for now. His look at John is - what it usually is. His look at Marconi… isn’t. Information by observation is the one additional thing John sometimes gets out of his agreements, though as information goes, he’s not sure how useful ‘Elias and his lieutenant are lovers’ has the potential to be. Absurdly, he wonders how their side of this conversation went, if it involved anything about sharing a meal together. Or a present, maybe. 

He pushes the thought out of his head. He generally tries not to think about how his partners might talk about him (though he’s always wondered, on some level, if Kara and Snow had ever compared notes). (Elias is being… lenient with him, apparently. Most people don’t want him thinking about past partners that specifically). Marconi finishes with his clothes. 

“Eyes front, John,” says Elias.

He’s expecting fingers, braces in the forced relaxation way in case they’re skipping that part. He’s not expecting the blow, trips forward a step. He catches on quickly though. Lack of handcuffs notwithstanding, apparently Marconi’s police kink (or Elias’s, but he’d guess the former) didn’t stop at the uniform. The baton swings into him again. John shifts so that his thighs press against the table edge, adjusts his stance. Starts a count in his head in case one of them asks later. Does his best to relax his arms so the rope doesn’t rub too badly (for all the good that’s going to do). His body makes sure, will make sure he holds still, enough to be the desired target if sometimes only that.

Marconi’s intermittent, stopping now and then to finger him, in that way that feels testing-for-readiness. Which - it’s not like being beaten with a baton for a few minutes is going to _change_ anything about that. He’s allowed - or required, he can’t always tell - to throw another glance at Elias, who’s palming himself through his pants, now. 

“There’s no need to be silent, John.” Which usually means he’s supposed to react out loud more. And in this case doesn’t. Marconi’s touching him again. At his arms where neither of them can see, John grimaces. Verbally participating is - not on his list of favorite activities. Which doesn’t matter.

“I’m not self-lubricating, you know.” Predictably, the baton accelerates after that. 

“I don’t mind.” Marconi pauses again and presses up behind him, hard through his uniform trousers. “D’you want it again before or after you suck me off?” 

“Ask your boyfriend,” John suggests. That’s better than actually having to provide his preferences, at least. Not that ‘would you rather be beaten then fucked, or the other way around’ was much of a preference, especially if both were going to happen anyway. Marconi raps the baton across his shoulders. “Both it is.” So there’s another few minutes before Marconi drags him away from the table and kicks him to his knees. 

Unlike Elias, Marconi is apparently not planning on helping him. John does his best with what he has, which is fine, he’s more than up to this with lips and tongue even when Marconi grabs his bound hands to briefly rub his fingers over his wrists for a moment. John frees his cock from the navy blue and gets to work. Marconi has a longer fuse. Even knowing what to do (he gets nothing off Marconi that a normal partner wouldn’t, but apparently _Elias_ knows) John’s at it for a while. 

“He said you were good at this,” notes Marconi in the middle, voice almost steady, and no, John _refuses_ to think about that. Marconi pushes him away before he finishes, which could be expected from all the fingering, and pulls John’s wrists up again. 

“You know, police don’t use rope. Definitely not coconut or whatever you have.” Marconi kicks him in the stomach, then lower, then a few more times. John doubles over. He considers the possible efficacy of saying ‘you know’ at Marconi the next time they have a confrontation that’s actually two sided. He’s not sure which one of them that might affect more, though. He straightens up again because Marconi is holding out the baton, implication obvious even without John knowing it. He takes it in his mouth, swallows around it, takes it in deeper when Marconi shoves at it, feels the impact repeatedly in the back of his throat and does his practiced best not to gag on it. He coughs and swallows hard again when it’s pulled out. Marconi kicks him a few more times, presumably for good measure since John hadn’t said anything this time. Then it’s up and back over the table. 

As promised, he gets another meeting with the baton before Marconi switches, pulling out a paddle from somewhere. It’s loud, flat and heavy. 

“Police don’t have paddles either.” 

Marconi walks around, grabs John’s hair, and knocks his head into the table. 

“Shut up.” He’d love to. He doesn’t get to. Marconi walks back around and heightens his efforts again. Another look at Elias reveals him with his cock in his hand, stroking.

Time passes more, measured by the count in his head, by the sound against his body, by his nervous system firing the same message over and over, grinding through him, by the growing intensifying compulsion to speak up again.

“This is very repetitive.” He doesn’t get a response, this time. Just a battery that almost trips his count, and then Marconi picks up the baton again and shoves it into him.

John clenches his eyes and tries to breath through the near-agony of it. Somewhat lubed and more narrow than a fist, it’s still more unyielding than a strap-on, longer, and Marconi moves it brutally, blunt and hard. He stops, finally, but takes his hand off instead of withdrawing it out. 

“Don’t drop it.” It turns out Marconi has yet another paddle, small and oval. He can bring it down avoiding the baton’s still external portion, and does so. “Did you hear me?”

“I got it.” John’s not sure if this is the kind of order his body will arrange compliance with, or the kind he can fail and then take retribution. He wishes he knew, though either way his muscles are straining, burning from both directions. “Don’t drop the baton, it’s impolite to the police.” Marconi knocks his head into the table again, then takes a while to demonstrate his clearly accomplished aim, no touch to the baton from the paddle, and about only there. 

“Do they offer a class at the Academy?”

Marconi drags out the baton in one motion and in another replaces it with his cock, pushing forward and jerking John back by the hips, more yielding inside him but just as hard otherwise.

“Shut _up._ ” Finally, he gets to comply. 

Marconi’s fucking is as brutal, and as slow a fuse, as the respective prior activities. His grip on John’s hips bruises, his weight on John grinds his arms into the table. He finally finishes, and John exhales through his burning throat, spent in a way that has entirely nothing to do with his cock, which has taken nothing but a boot in all this time. He flinches when he feels hands on his skin again. 

He hasn’t looked at Elias in a while, it occurs to him, and then that this _is_ Elias, walking around the table to start untying Johns hands, pulling the rope away. He’s been as assiduous as he can be, but his wrists are rubbed bloody anyway, and Elias handles them carefully, as though with concern. He lets John rest his head on his fists as he walks back around behind him, pushes his fingers in slowly, slick and gentle, familiarizing with the territory. 

He warms the lubricant in his hands, spreads it thoroughly - there wasn’t much before to begin with, and it’s mostly been absorbed by now. He presses his cock in just as slowly, pausing to touch without enough pressure to disturb the bruises, brush John’s hair again. At this point of course it all hurts anyway, and he hates it, despite that and not because of it, feels tears stinging behind his eyes and knows he’s not going to get to deny them. As though it’s not enough that his ability turns his body against him, more simply human responses betray him the same way, offering what he didn’t want to give. 

Elias finishes in him, hands caressing his skin, firmly, softly. Elias has him get up as John hides a flinch again. 

“There’s a shower through that door.” 

“I’m fine.” He’s not, obviously, even his voice is catching on his throat, but showering here won’t really help.

“I insist.” And that’s that. 

John walks out of the shower to a bathrobe and slippers. He’s not sure he wouldn’t rather walk back naked, but their presence is, apparently, an order. Back in the room Elias has him sit on the couch and wraps bandages around his wrists. John has a sudden, vicious memory of Charlie Burton. Marconi stands in Elias’s corner now. He meets John’s look and winks. John just barely doesn’t shudder. 

His clothing and shoes are laid out. He dresses, feeling eyes on him. Elias shows him the door.

“My people will take you back. Always a pleasure, John.” He walks out into the hall, waits for the men with the bag.

Walking hurts. Sitting in the car hurts. Getting out of the car hurts.

They take the bag off again, get back in the car, drive away. He stands alone in the alley. The circle closes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elias, Marconi, and John are in a sexual situation together, Elias and Marconi are in a relationship but don't have sex on screen, Marconi and Elias both have sex with John on screen. (As per the warnings, said sex is nonconsensual).


	5. Root, or, Delayed Repayment, part 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No sex/noncon onscreen in this part, though it's clearly referenced.

Sometimes, he can’t discharge his half right away. It stays, then, incomplete, palpable, waiting. No one ever has trouble finding him to collect. 

“Don’t shoot!” (those words, again) he yells to Root across the train platform when she raises her gun again, the words and what they carry safe to fling across the crowd like a bullet isn’t. He can feel the something-else through them, and no further gunshots sound, no bodies, but they’re on the platform and she’s running and he has to get to _Harold_. When he looks up, she’s gone and it isn’t, a weight, unremitting on the edge of his mind.

He gets Harold back to the library, double checks every piece of security they have as he passes it. Pulls in every determination and training he’s ever had to betray nothing outwardly, no sign that he’s awaiting anything. It’s nearly not enough when the phone rings. If she’s found him _here_ …

_“Is this a bad time, John?”_

Yes, he wants to say, pick another one, even though he’s not entirely sure that’s allowed, even though he’s never owed someone twice at a time before, even though he knows owing Root once is going to be bad enough. But the voice makes him pause, and then it’s not that, no mention of it unless there’s a double meaning behind “I don’t think so”. She hangs up, and the obligation holds like an anchor, draws like an electromagnet, and the phone feels like holding explosive, a call that could come at any moment, a call that could still come from just outside. Or inside. 

He gets out of there as fast as possible after that. Finds a hotel they’ve never used and never should, obscure and random, makes sure there are no cameras in the room, that his phone is off, that the curtains are closed. (It’s never noteworthy to anyone, but somehow he still doesn’t want Harold to _see_ ). 

He sits on the bed and tries not think about how furiously he wishes he could do _anything_ \- call Carter and Fusco, wait behind the door with his gun or without it - he wouldn’t even care about what he owes, he’d take anything she came to give him gladly if only at the end of it he could make certain she would never come near them, never come near Harold again. But that isn’t how it works, and he knows it. He doesn’t think he’s ever hated it quite so desperately before.

How much an obligation grants his… partners, varies. It’s been ten minutes and it’s been a night, it’s been an orgasm and it’s been enough to lose count. It has at least something to do with the person, he’s gathered, their creative focus, their strength of will. Based on what he knows so far of Root, he doesn’t think he’s going to be let off with a few minutes on his knees.

Root arrives with a rolling suitcase, and he knows it’s going to be - worse.


	6. Root, or, Delayed Repayment, part 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Additional chapter warning for torture, see endnotes for details.
> 
> 1|6|16: This chapter has been content-edited, see endnotes for more details also.

Root wants _everything_. 

She opens her suitcase and starts moving its contents to the desk, and he’s not sure if he wants to look or not. The blindfold she tosses him takes the choice out of it. “No peeking,” she says, sweet like poisoned wine, and he tries not to shudder and can’t, and he knows that means she wanted to see it.

Root does want him on his knees, holding his head between her legs until his jaw aches. She leaves him there after while he hears her footsteps walk to the bathroom, hears the tap run. She sets a glass of water on the nightstand and tells him he can’t drink it.

She wants to undress him with a knife, tells him to stand still, and she circles him and he tries not to let his breathing catch and he doesn’t get to, again.

She wants him to fuck her, laid out on the bed. She tells him how to touch her, grabbing his hand when he can’t see, and she tells him not to come yet, and she clenches around him and gasps and tells him to do it again.

She wants to handcuff him to the headboard and straddle him, slide down onto him again, set a pace that makes the hard metal bite into his wrists when he can’t hold his hands still. 

She wants to pull the knife out again and run it over his skin. Wants to pull out a scalpel and go beyond that, some pattern he can’t figure out without seeing it. Wants to set up a soldering iron and accentuate the pattern - she tells him that’s what it is, compliments the hotel’s power strip and bemoans their rule against open flames. Tells him to stop shaking or he’ll ruin her linework. He wishes on some level she’d left the cuffs on. 

She describes the electrodes too, while she hooks them up, and then while she uses them, whole paragraphs about amps and volts and customizations that he can’t allow to blur because she starts asking him questions about what she said. He considers for the kindness of torture that he can escape from, go away inside his own head, but she wants him here so here he stays.

She wants to fuck him. She tosses something next to him while she gets ready, tells him he can have it if he wants. It’s lubricant in a bottle, and he’s learned to do this as quickly as he can, because she’s not the first to be inpatient, or to not want to bother herself, though it’s harder when his hands have started to shake again. That happened sometimes - endorphins and - it didn't matter. He’s barely finished with a bare minimum when she comes up behind him. She puts her own hands on his hips and shoves into him. 

Her pace is vicious, sharp thrusts, too hard and too fast, and his legs want to give out, and he bites back everything he’s not obliged to show because the hotel staff would just turn and leave again, and she’d have to stop to answer the door, and he’d still rather they never knock on it in the first place. He reminds himself that he’s endured worse by far, that she’s human and does have to get tired at some point. She tells him to come, and the angle’s all wrong and he doesn’t actually know if his body works that way, and it doesn’t matter because his body. will. cooperate. She doesn’t quite stop after that, moving her hips, and when she finally shudders and stills and pulls out he can’t rid himself of the sense that he still feels her.

“You’re such _fun_ ,“ she says when she has them laid out on the bed again, hand running idly over his cock, audibly pleased when he flinches from it. “We should get a nicer room, next time. Ceiling beams. More reasonable about the candles.” 

“Don’t,” he says, can’t help it, and it doesn’t matter because no one ever _knows_ but some people seem to understand anyway. 

“But John,” she turns toward him, he can feel from the bed shifting, from the angle of her voice. “I’m sure there’ll be _someone_ you won’t want me to shoot again.”

She leaves him on the bed while she packs up her suitcase again. “Close your eyes,” she tells him when she takes the blindfold back. He could listen for the door, but he doesn’t have to, because he can feel it when the circle finally closes, obligation paid, complete. End. 

He forces himself off the bed before his eyes have adjusted to the light again, grits his teeth in the shower and reminds himself that scrubbing repeatedly has never helped, that it’s not his skin he wants to peel out of. He refuses to look closely at the marks from the electrodes, at whatever it was she drew on him. It doesn’t matter. There won’t even be scars.

There never are.

He has work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details on warning: knife/scalpel, burns, electricity. Also a blindfold.
> 
> Details on edit: this chapter has been (non-extensively) content-edited. I will provide any part of the original to anyone who requests. (Saying this not because I think anyone would, but because I've had the experience of wanting to reread pieces lost to new versions, and have either felt not OK asking, or haven't had very good experiences with it (which is their right, to be clear), so I'm playing Golden Rule with features, so to speak.)


	7. Witness: Carter, or, Partnership

“Give us a minute,” says Carter to the wife and husband. John follows her into the entryway. 

“We don’t have enough to arrest them,” he says, because he can read people, too. Carter shakes her head.

“And I don’t think it would help if we did. They know their rights.” John nods.

“Let me talk to them.” Carter raises her eyebrows.

“What are you planning to say?”

“I’m very persuasive.” He’s not sure she’s entirely convinced, but she lets him go. And doesn’t follow him. Tension he hasn’t been quite aware of relaxes somewhat. Fine. The rest is - just another day.

 

They started their own conversation, in the interim. Something about wine. John waits until he has their attention again. 

“It would be very convenient if you told us what we wanted to know.” They exchange looks.

“I never did like Jack anyway,” Melissa says, runs her eyes up and down him. 

“He wanted us to protect him, he should have paid what _he_ owed, ever.” Renald is doing about the same, but more focused. “Do you have a notebook?” 

“It’s your house,” John points out. 

“That’s a point. There should be one on the desk over there.” Properly, this is their part, not his. John brings over the notebook anyway, and a pen. They consult with each other, take turns scribbling things down. After a few minutes, Melissa hands him a torn out page. He looks it over. Yes, this is what they need. Exact and complete. He makes to call Finch. Melissa straightens up on the couch.

“No, no, no phone calls. They’ll wait. We’ve got guests at three and I still need to change clothes. You too, honey,” she adds to Renald. “Those pants are fine for public servants and sex on the couch, but the Wests are going to be coming.” He looks the opposite of displeased.

“Of course. I had Tommy lay out the brown ones you like. If you see Janelle eyeing my ass in them again-“ She holds up her hand and twists her wedding ring suggestively. 

“I think you mean _my_ ass.” Renald winks at her.

John doesn’t have to try the contact again to know it won’t work. Unfortunately, reporting on this development _isn’t_ that time sensitive, and that means time isn’t something he’s entitled to. He puts the paper down, takes a look at the clock. Alright.

Couples can be tricky, though this one apparently means not to be.

“She gets four orgasms, at least,” says Renald, loosening his tie. “And good ones, don’t poke a bit and try to pass it off.”

“Oh, you always say the nicest things.” Melissa is sliding blue lace down her legs. “Give him a bit first though, it’ll help us all have a better time. Just keep your clothes on, I’m doing that part.” Renald is unbuckling his belt. John gets to his knees. Renald is also wearing blue. Matching. It’s slightly rough against John’s lips. 

“Jesus,” says Renald once John has him in his mouth, probing with his tongue. “Oh. Oh that’s good. Oh yeah don’t stop.” He reaches for Melissa’s hand and she takes his, her own eyes fixed on the proceedings. Her other hand seems to be occupied. Renald continues in this vein for most of the few minutes it takes before he orders John off again, leaning back against the couch and breathing hard.

“Now, kiss his shoes.” Melissa strokes Renald’s hand, runs a finger up his length and exchanges smiles with him when he jumps a little. “No, don’t put your hands on the floor, that’s disgusting. Again. Again. I said kiss them, not lick them, that’s not a complicated difference. Again.” 

“Hers, now,” says Renald when John’s gotten back up on his knees again. He doesn’t seem as into verbal orders, which means John gets more the other way. After, Melissa lifts her legs in turn so he can take her heels in his mouth. 

“Alright, now get up here. I like that suit of yours, I’m getting its worth out of it before you’re losing it.” Melissa is less verbal than Renald, but about as loud. She climaxes twice under his tongue, Renald and what he can do letting him know about in synchrony. 

“Well,” she says once she’s caught her breath somewhat. “Let’s see what you have under that suit.”

She isn’t careful with his clothing, tossing it to the side as she gets it off him. She has him finish removing his pants himself, and doesn’t permit him off his knees, but he can manage undressing from most positions at this point. She does let him stand afterwards, running fingernails over his skin, making an o with her fingers in the middle as though measuring him. Then she stretches out on the couch, Renald shifting over to make room.

“Well? I don’t have all day. Let’s see what you can do with that.” 

He’s only a few strokes in when she stops him. “Not feeling it. Get back back down.” Their carpet is soft. Melissa swings back up and sits again, takes Renald’s hand another time and pulls him to where he was, gestures John back between her legs. 

“Oh, I like this view. Did I tell you to hurry up already? Hurry up.” This time, she directs him back after one. 

“Your turn.” 

“Our turn?” Renald suggests. He’s caressing her hand, now. She moves to kiss him.

“You have the _best_ ideas. Now, how should we do this?” She pauses, in thought, for a moment, looking between him and John. “Honey, did you want to fuck him, or?” John has a fairly developed sense for when people are eyeing him. Renald’s erection hasn’t gone down at all.

“Sounds good to me.” 

“Excellent, in that case I know what we’ll do. Where did we put the lube last time?” John glances back at his pants, and Melissa rolls her eyes. “Like we’d use your stuff. Honey?” John considers himself to buy perfectly high quality products - he can more than afford to, now, and as far as priorities go, well. But he’s hardly about to start an argument over it, even if he could. 

“Top drawer?” Renald doesn’t look entirely certain.

“Oh, of course, middle drawer’s for coasters.” She looks at John. “Well, what are you waiting for? No, no standing up. No, what did I say about your hands.” He shuffles over to the desired drawer, returns. Starts opening the lid. “Don’t be ridiculous, your hands are going in me. Honey, take it from him or we’ll have to send him off to the bathroom, and I really don’t want to wait.” John hands the bottle to Renald, who gets off the couch and moves behind him. “Alright, get back here. We like to orgasm at the same time so you’d better be putting some effort into it. And get your tongue in me properly this time, my nerve endings don’t stop at the edge.” 

 

After, they mostly ignore him while he redresses, tucks the notebook page in his pocket. Melissa breaks off in the middle of kissing to wave a hand at him.

“Well, get out of here. And take that public servant with you before she knocks a vase over or something.”

“Upstairs shower?” asks Renald as John straightens his suit as best he can. 

“I thought you’d never ask.” 

 

John walks back into the entryway. Carter is leaning on the wall near the stained glass sidelight. He holds the page out to her. “I got it.” He can still hear Melissa and Renald through the living room door. So she would have - John tries to think about anything else. They walk out of the house together. Outside, Carter holds out a water bottle.

“Thought you could use this.” John’s torn for a moment but - he takes it, rinses his mouth repeatedly, spits on the sidewalk and gulps down the rest. 

“Thanks.” He puts his hand to his ear.

“Finch? We got what we needed.”

“From Mr. and Mrs. Adair?”

“Yeah.” He reads it out, hears Finch’s keyboard in the background. 

“Good, this is exactly what we were missing. If you and Detective Carter could-“

 

They sit in the car together, and she doesn’t say anything, and she won’t say anything. He - could. Theoretically. John looks out the window and considers interpersonal connections.


	8. Witness: Fusco, or, Uninquisitive

Whatever Harold does to his phones, John is pretty sure that if could mass produce it, he’d have another fortune to add to his count. Since apparently he chooses not to, John just gets to find it incredibly convenient, lack of connection an annoyance he almost never needs to worry about. Unfortunately, almost never is different from actually never. More unfortunately, in addition to being stuck in a basement behind some brick partition wall and deprived of communication, they’re also out of ammunition. And being shot at. 

“So,” says Fusco, who whatever his other failings does seem to deserve some credit when it comes to facing death. “Is this the part where you pull out a grenade? Or just your hands?” He’d consider wishing he’d brought a grenade, but if he goes there he’d probably prefer another few clips. And the second option is better than sitting here until the guys figure out there’s nothing stopping them from just walking over, but not particularly by much, since it’s more than likely to end the same way. These aren’t Anton’s boys, today. John inhales (tells himself he’ll need the air to be loud enough).

“We’d like to get out of here.” _“My friend would like to get out of here”_ would have been his next choice, then something about not needlessly killing cops. No reason for them both to die, and Finch could still do more with an asset than without one. It isn’t needed. The guns stop. John exhales again.

“Well? There something you waiting for?”

There - isn’t.

John puts his gun down, stands up, and walks out towards them, palming the lubricant in the currently most accessible pocket. They might turn out not to actively want it, but he could usually get away with it if they weren’t directly opposed.

The trick to a group is to, if possible, take care of everyone who _doesn't_ want to fuck him first (sometimes that's everyone. Sometimes it's no one. It’s wait and see if this is one of the times he can figure it out). Then try to find at least one person who won't mind preparations, or, failing that, who won't mind having John's mouth first. That helped, even if the later others minded. Sometimes there wasn't anyone, or people had their own ideas about order. Then, well - he healed.

This day he gets lucky.

Behind all the bullets, they’re pretty run-of-the-mill, and, now that they're not trying to kill him, not overly bad company. There’s the one who wants John to call him Lord Dragon - not the _strangest_ thing John's ever had to call someone - and the one who wants to fuck John with his gun instead of his dick - that's not necessarily good for the gun - even Kara had mostly wanted his mouth, for this kind of thing - but that's not really any of John's affair.

He gets slapped a few times, kicked around a bit.

The second to last one wants John to take the rest of his clothes off. Quickly, so they go on the ground in a pile, but the guy seems to be in it for the looking and touching, so it seems safe to hope he’ll get to keep them to put on again, at the end.

He grips John’s shoulders as John sucks his cock, then shoves him over so abruptly he cracks his head on the floor. Straddles his face for another minute before moving back. Runs his hands over John’s stomach and hips while he fucks into him.

The last guy has John put his hands against one of the walls, and then stands behind him and drives his knee up between John’s legs. It can’t knock him over because apparently position takes priority, so it just comes as close as it can, knocks out his breath and what he has of composure. Leaves him fighting to get them back, put himself together in case there’s more. There is, but the guy stops after three, breathing hard as he gets himself out and pushes into John. It still takes John more than a moment to settle back in, muscles overly tight with their enforced immobility. But he knows this drill. By a few strokes in, he’s not quite over the nausea, but he’s gotten himself down enough, untensing as he can where it currently matters most, that if the guy was first instead of last, it probably wouldn’t even hurt that much. 

It’s over pretty quickly after that, whether because the guy liked watching or liked hitting him or is just the type, John couldn’t say. He pulls out and John gets back up off the wall, feels the doneness of it as all of them together stop paying attention to him and start filing out.

They did leave his clothes. John dresses before crossing back to the partition. 

“We can go now,” he tells Fusco, who’s sitting behind it like he’s still using it for cover. “They’re gone.” He picks up his gun and puts it where it belongs, doesn’t look to see if Fusco follows him as he walks toward the stairs. Hears footsteps after a moment. 

Above ground again he gets on his earpiece to get Finch an update. Doesn’t do a good enough job at being reassuring, apparently, because while Finch stops sounding panicked, some of the replacements are both worry and suspicion.

“Mr. Reese, are you injured?” 

“I’m fine, Finch.” He’s limping a little - all else aside, the numbers add up, even for him - but that doesn’t count, and anyway it’s not like he can bring it up.

“Let me speak to Detective Fusco.”

“What, don’t you trust me anymore?” 

“When it comes to your wellbeing, Mr. Reese, I’m afraid I feel quite justified in that.” Well, it’s not like he can really dispute the accuracy of that. Fusco picks up his phone when it rings, fumbles in his pockets for it. Looks at John while he’s answering.

“Yeah no, we’re OK. It looked bad, sure, but. Wonderboy got us out. No bulletholes. Yeah, I’m sure. I’m a cop, I know what a bullet looks like.” Apparently Fusco manages to be sufficiently convincing at the end, because he hangs up and looks to John again. “You need a ride anywhere?”

The number’s going to need a way out of town. They’ll need to coordinate. John gets in the car and tries to decide if he can get away with a stop at a safehouse with a shower. Traffic patterns, timing. 

He thinks Fusco is watching him through the mirror more than usual. For all of Finch’s question-avoiding privacy, sometimes the avail is as much in not asking them. He keeps his mind on the number and tries to ignore it.

**Author's Note:**

> Elaboration on warning: The premise of this story is that John has the power to ask people for things they wouldn't have done otherwise but are on some level open to, and in return he owes them sexual satisfaction however they might want it. So, he always has agency in making the decision, but he wouldn't choose to have this sex otherwise, and it's generally something he endures rather than wants. 
> 
> Personal note: I have serious perfectionist blocks in writing, where I feel I can't write something well enough so I don't at all. But, I'm also generally unmotivated to write unless I can put it up. I'm trying to get better at this by just putting things up and telling myself I can change them later if I come up with better things. WBB is my tag to refer to this.
> 
>  
> 
> [theragnarok wrote an amazing future!fic 'aftercare' piece for this verse. In their words, "where Harold knows of John’s ability and takes care of him after he has to use it".](http://theragnarokd.tumblr.com/post/137013529849/writing-other-ppls-verses-this-is-based-on)
> 
> [My tumblr for these kinds of things](http://findundergrounddragoutofwater.tumblr.com). I love fandom social things, and anyone who feels like they might want to message etc me for any reason is encouraged to totally do so.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [wish for rest (more than water or food or breath)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5785714) by [the_ragnarok](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_ragnarok/pseuds/the_ragnarok)




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